


back roads.

by scoundrelhan



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 05:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10610103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoundrelhan/pseuds/scoundrelhan
Summary: The past few motels have either been full, or too rundown even by their standards, except for this one.





	

The past few motels have either been full, or too rundown even by their standards, except for this one. The name has Mulder sneaking glances at her, crows feet smiling, and as soon as their gazes meet, they lose it. It feels good to laugh. She’d been worried they’d forgotten how.

“Maybe it’s fate,” she says. It was supposed to be a joke, but her tongue trips on deja vu, reminds her of another late night long before this one, of fast food grease and nervous eyes. Playing with fire, that’s what they’d been doing. She turns her face towards the window, but nothing can douse the flames in her chest now. No skin graft could fix the damage done.

“Hmm,” he hums, too ambiguous to wash away the taste of fear - of what, she doesn’t know.  _ Liar _ , she thinks to herself.  _ Of course, you know. _

Without a word, Mulder jumps out of the car, runs around the front, and throws open her door. He gets like this sometimes, like he’s too much for his own body. He leans into the door, into her space. He smells like sweat and motel soap.

“Dance with me, Scully,” he says. The question settles in the upward tilt of his lips.

She wants to rip away his dollar store sunglasses, see those warm, cocky eyes of his that always convince her to do stupid things like dance in the parking lot of a desert alien-themed motel in the dead of July. Instead, she slips her palm into his. Both of their hands are too hot, too sweaty, but still right.

It wasn't supposed to go like this.

He holds her close, and hums something that sounds like every song they’ve ever listened to on the radio boiled down to a few off-key notes. All half-remembered choruses bleeding into static hitches of breath. This is their song now. The tune was different back then. Softer, kinder. So were they, but people change and the record ends up scratched. The CD skips. The chords clash. Somehow, they still find a rhythm in the madness of it all: the screaming of wheels on blacktop, the bass of their pulses beneath sticky skin. Somehow, they make it theirs again.

“You're a horrible dancer,” he says, smiling, Midwest sunlight seeping into the shadows between them as they sway and stumble on the gravel berm.

She laughs, true and raw and honest, because they might be hiding from the world, but she can't hide from him. She never could, so she laughs, loud and youthful, and he twirls her into his arms.

“Pot, meet kettle,” she says into his warm shoulder, sun-chapped lips catching on his cotton t-shirt.

God, she loves him, but there's a reason she never kept up with piano lessons. Keeping a beat has never been her forte, but he grabs her hands and lets her stand on his feet like a toddler and leads her back into their sweet, roadside melody like it's his only purpose.

It’s such an odd thing, to love. She’s told him before, but she doesn't know if he believes it. Another odd thing: to think one is not deserving of another’s love. Her life could be summed up by that one word: odd. The slump of her shoulders, her hay-colored hair, booking a single room, jumping borders like fear-laced hopscotch. All of it is so odd.

_ I love you so much _ , she wants to say, but it comes out wrong. Instead, she says, “Kiss me,” and he tastes like maple sugar and dust from every back road from Maryland to Nevada.

**Author's Note:**

> I love them so much... Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
